Sherlock Into Darkness
by BoughtOnEbay
Summary: Johnlock, sequel to The Experiment, topic suggested by a reader. Again, a collaborative effort with isaiddangerous. Light, sweet despite title. Rated M for sex (non-graphic, unless you have a good imagination).


Miniscule motes of dust floated lazily in the beams of afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows of 221B. One such streak fell on Sherlock, who was stretched out full length on the couch, stretching his toes like a cat. The rest of him lay unmoving, all the way up to the steepled fingertips.

"No, I disagree with you," John said into the silence, thoughtfully. This was the first thing that John had said in over an hour, and it rudely extracted Sherlock from his mind palace.

"I beg your pardon," he said curtly. Squinting, he peered over at John through the angular brightness. "Were you speaking just now?"

"Was I?" John asked absently, not looking up from his book. "Oh. I didn't mean to say anything out loud. Sorry."

A loud _tsk_ emanated from Sherlock before he resettled himself on the Union Jack pillow he'd stolen from John's chair and went back to contemplating the ceiling. Silence resumed.

For all of ten seconds. Irritated, Sherlock abruptly lifted himself up on silk-clad elbows. "You _disagree_ with me? About what?"

John smirked on the side of his mouth not visible to the consulting detective. _Got you_. "Oh, just about sexual arousal not coming from the transport," he replied lightly, glancing up casually. "In that, you have to admit, you're quite wrong."

"Am I," Sherlock said, swinging his long legs around to a sitting position, the better to consider this new distraction. "I thought I presented insurmountable evidence to support my case. Which point, specifically, requires reinforcement? I will be delighted to elucidate." A certain glint appeared in his razor-sharp gaze.

"Oh, I agree that you effectively demonstrated that the mental aspects of bondage can engage the imagination to overcome inhibition when it comes to sex," John agreed readily, as the edges of Sherlock's mouth began to rise. "Although, as we've observed any number of times since, the practice appears to be completely unnecessary." _God, how I love that smile. _Just watching its slow progress almost made John dizzy.

He swallowed, licked his lips, then continued as if his point were self-evident. "But you're implying that special attention to the body cannot materially contribute. And, of course, that's where you are just plain _wrong_," he said, knowing that his repeated, deliberate use of that particular word would goad Sherlock into responding.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock levered himself up from the couch, stepped over the coffee table, and strode to stand behind John's chair. After a moment's pause, he gracefully placed elegant hands on the doctor's shoulders, fingering John's collar aside. Stroking the doctor's exposed neck lightly with his fingertips, Sherlock bent forward to brush his lips against John's cheek. "You're baiting me, John," he said softly. "What's really on your mind?" Running the tip of his tongue along the rim of John's ear, his warm breath tickling, he sent involuntary shivers sparkling down John's spine.

John tried to remember how he'd planned to lead the conversation. "Well… I…. watch you at work, on a…. crime scene for example, and I can hardly imagine the way the world must look to you – full to bursting with information, just waiting for your scrutiny and cataloging."

Sherlock shifted and began to tease John's other ear. "All the data lies there for anyone to observe, John," he murmured.

"Yes… ah… yes, and observe it you do. You see things, and file all those images, all that information, away in that gorgeous head of yours. And then you carry it all back to your mind palace and play with it there, manipulating it and fitting it together in all different ways, and enjoying yourself thoroughly until you achieve resolution."

"How very stimulating you make my process sound," Sherlock commented, amused.

"And am I wrong? I've witnessed you at that moment of realization, Sherlock," John countered. "It looks very much like the moment when—"

"Did you call me over here for a reason, John?"

In answer, John rose from the chair and walked around to put his arms loosely around his friend's neat, narrow waist. Looking up, he said invitingly, "Check my back pocket, Sherlock, and you'll discover the inspiration for an idea I have. The _pocket_, Sherlock… on the _outside_ of the trousers—the _back_ pocket, that's not—that's not either—the _other_ one!" John writhed in laughter as Sherlock made a show of searching him thoroughly. Finally, with a flourish, the detective triumphantly whipped out the contents of the named pocket, a length of dark fabric sewn double thickness.

"Hmm," he remarked, eyes luminous. "And what are we to make of this? Somewhat more substantial than a rubber band, I notice. How do you want me, then?"

"Oh, let me count the ways," John answered fervently. "No, not like that," he chuckled, as Sherlock began to put his hands behind his back. "At least, not this time. But here, let me help you with this…" John reached up and treated himself to the pleasure of unbuttoning Sherlock's neat dress shirt and of slipping it off, leaving his lean but surprisingly strong torso bare.

With a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, John guided him over towards the desk. He then picked up the desk chair, turned it around, and set it in the middle of the floor, guiding Sherlock to sit down on it backwards. With an arched eyebrow, Sherlock lowered himself, placing his legs on either side of the upright, wooden back. He folded his arms across the back of the chair and looked expectantly up at John.

The army doctor stood authoritatively before Sherlock, fists on hips, looking down at him critically. "Now listen," he said in a mildly scolding tone. "You've been just about driving yourself – and therefore _me –_ insane with this latest case, Sherlock. You don't seem to be able to think of anything _else_ lately." He paused meaningfully.

Sherlock tilted his head, puzzled. "You didn't seem to have any trouble getting my attention just now," he pointed out. "You said 'sex'. And here I am."

"And I know exactly what would happen if I tried to advance the situation when you're in this mental state about a case, recent experience being an unfortunate guide!" John's hands flew in the air, emphasizing his exasperation. "We'd get off to a good start, but then a new avenue of analysis would occur to you, or you'd suddenly ask to borrow my phone so you could text Molly to run another test, or start fretting about how Anderson will mess things up if there's another incident. And then off you would pop, making vague promises about 'later'."

"Problem?" Sherlock raised both eyebrows. "Do you doubt that there will be a 'later'?"

"That's not the point." John sighed, pinching the arch of his nose. "Listen, Sherlock, you know how you're not eating much right now? Tea and toast, every other day, maybe?"

"I never eat during this stage of a case. It slows me down," Sherlock retorted reflexively. He answered John's concerns regarding his lack of food intake almost by rote now.

"I might tend to disagree when the 'stage' is going on nine-plus days…" John continued, dryly. "You're so wrapped up in the goings-on in your mind that you're ignoring the needs of your body, for what I diagnose to be too long."

Sherlock was unable to avoid the temptation to be slightly snide. "I did manage somehow, you know … _before_."

"Hmm. And now?" John continued to grill Sherlock despite his tone.

"Now I … find that when it gets to be too much of a distraction, I'd prefer something other than… abstinence or taking care of things myself. Sometimes, when I see you, around the flat, or when we're out, I … well, actually… it just sort of hits me that…" Sherlock stopped, clearly having something in mind, yet rather at a loss for words.

"That, if you were to simply ask at any time, you could almost certainly make love to me?" John finished.

Sherlock flushed. "Something like that."

A slow smile crept over John's face. "I seem to have had more of an influence on you than you've let on. So. Let's hear a sample of what really crosses your mind about what you'd like to do- in the original vigorous and crass terms, if you please."

Sherlock dropped his voice and expressed his point with a growl, using an impressively colorful vocabulary.

But John, his time in the military having quite thoroughly prepared him for such a challenge, trumped Sherlock's suggestion with a response incorporating army boots, a tank, and his mother's gardening tools, which simultaneously shocked Sherlock's unaccustomed ears and piqued his interest.

John had to laugh out loud at Sherlock's expression. "Okay, maybe we're not quite ready for that," he snorted. "Back to my point… your old methods don't work because of the new alternative I offer. But you are unwilling to let your brain stop spinning for just a while to pursue opportunities with me, because you constantly believe that just a little more processing will uncover the answer. When there's a case going and you feel you're close, your mind gets blinkers on, trying to relieve that pressure first. Am I right?" At this assessment, Sherlock had the grace to attempt to look apologetic.

John bent forward, bringing his face close to Sherlock's. "Well, my dear detective, hear this." John breathed deeply. "_I_ can't stand it any longer, having you pacing around radiating need and reclining like a diva begging to be ravished, tossing me fleeting expressions of affection and false starts, but giving me no chances to actually—"

"Let's just say 'assist' me, to our mutual benefit," Sherlock said circumspectly, his mind's eye still staggering. He looked at the length of fabric still clasped in John's hand. "So what are you proposing, exactly?"

John stood back up and held out the item in question. "It's a blindfold, Sherlock. I'd like to try a little experiment of my own. Your mind is extremely visually oriented. By taking away your sight, I want to nudge you out of your mind a little, and into your body more. Once you're there, it is then my challenge to keep you there long enough. But, of course, only if you're willing."

Sherlock looked at the cloth, his eyes dancing, as though the possible paths that the experiment might take were passing through them at light speed. John knew enough to be patient for the four-second analysis to conclude, and was rewarded with a short nod and a flash of trust across Sherlock's face.

"Right, then," John said, walking behind Sherlock. _I could stare into those eyes for a lifetime and never get bored. Seems a shame to cover them up_, he mused. He placed the material gently, blinding his friend and tying it snugly, trying not to snag any of those lengthy curls. "I'm looking forward to this," he said. "I've seen flashes of what you're like when you truly allow yourself to inhabit your body… " He stroked Sherlock's cheek with a finger, making him jump slightly. "… and I want to see more."

The blindfold was soft enough, and tight enough, that it molded itself to Sherlock's face and effectively disabled his ability to see. But as John walked around the chair slowly, he took in Sherlock's body language with concern. He was sitting stock-still and ramrod-straight on the chair, digging his fingertips into his forearms.

"Are you all right?" John asked anxiously. "It doesn't look like you're comfortable. I'm sorry, I should have-"

Sherlock reached up blindly, groping, and pushed John's hand away, stopping him from removing the band. "It's fine," he said shortly. "I'm just not used to being without the use of my eyes, and I can't say I like it. However… I'm intrigued." John hesitated, unsure.

"Go _on_, John."

John heard the tense edge in Sherlock's voice, but what spoke louder was that familiar drive to _know_, to chase down and grasp something new and interesting. John realized Sherlock was already too engaged in the exercise to turn back now. "You can take it off whenever you like, all right?" John said reassuringly, waiting for Sherlock's nod before continuing.

"Just relax, then, and let me do all the work," John suggested, earning another half smile. "That's better. Now. I'm going to touch you, Sherlock. I'll try not to startle you again, but you won't know exactly what I'm going to do next, so you'll have to pay attention."

"Your theory holds so far," Sherlock commented apprehensively. "I'm not thinking of anything else right now."

"Thinking is exactly what I _don't_ want you to do," John gently chided. "Your specialty is your mind, Sherlock, and it loves to chew on what you send it by sight. But I'm a doctor, and my world is that of the body, and for how it _feels_. Don't observe or analyze – just try to just take in what I do directly."

John rubbed his palms together briefly to warm them, and then put his hands on either side of the long, aristocratic neck. Smoothing them down, John closed his own eyes, the better to revel in the texture of fine skin, hard, narrow bone structure, and lean but firm musculature. Idly he chased off thoughts that were attempting to name the anatomy beneath his fingers, and focused on simply enjoying the fact, still novel, that he was being allowed to handle it. It wasn't long before he wondered what the equivalent words for _indescribably delicious_ were, when the sense was touch instead of taste.

Running his fingers along the top ridge of Sherlock's shoulders, John hooked his thumbs slightly. He pressed them firmly into the line where Sherlock's shoulder blades met his back, and stroked them up and down. A wave of pleasure shimmered through Sherlock's body, and he followed up with insistent passes of his kneading palms, beginning to push the tension out of Sherlock's upper back.

"Oh…" Sherlock breathed. "I had… no idea…" His voice indeed had taken on a tone of wonder.

"Haven't you ever had anyone massage your shoulders before?" John asked, surprised, his hands moving in a strong rhythm, as he worked.

The silence that followed was so long that John thought that perhaps Sherlock had not heard him. When the answer came, it was quiet.

"No. You're the first."

John bit his lower lip, holding in several things that he might say, knowing Sherlock would only hear them as pity. Instead, he directed his hands to flex in symmetry, cruising attentively over the uncovered expanse of Sherlock's back, neck and arms.

At first, Sherlock did not merely accept his touch passively. Instead, he responded with small, catlike movements, pushing back, shifting, and twisting slightly. Watching Sherlock's expression in the mirror over the gas fire, John saw his mouth open a bit unconsciously below the blindfold – that cupid's bow separating invitingly from the full bottom lip. _Focus, John_, he thought to himself.

Other than the occasional appreciative hum or breath from Sherlock, the whispering sounds of skin slipping against skin were the only noises for a long time. The sun slowly shifted across the room, a beam now limning Sherlock's curls with golden light and bathing his form so that his torso seemed to glow. In its warmth, Sherlock dropped his forehead onto his arms, finally relaxing enough to allow himself to be gently rocked by the movements of John's hands.

His mind swimming in languid darkness, Sherlock felt as if he were a sculpture, of stubborn clay perhaps, being warmed and shaped into his proper form. Each stroke smoothed him down, erasing scars he'd gathered over time as he conducted his investigations. He believed firmly that the work was the most important thing in his life, but he hadn't been aware that it was possible to untangle the tension it caused and that he regularly denied experiencing. Amazement and gratitude began to flow in him, as John began to draw out the varied threads of strain.

The ongoing background of his life- including Anderson's baseless disdain, Donovan's hurtful insults, Mycroft's intolerable interference, and his own constant self-doubt and second-guessing – faded slowly, banished to the edges of his awareness by John's commanding gestures. And almost magically loosened were the knots lodged more or less permanently in his tissues, woven from the longtime isolation of being different, from the loneliness of being unable to connect with others, and from the terror of the possibility of being wrong… and from pretending, constantly, not to care.

And finally, gradually, John corralled the current case running rampant in his brain and soothed it into dormancy. Sherlock was nearly overcome with the blissful, overdue relief.

Then Sherlock also became acutely aware, not only of what John was taking away, but also of what he was giving. Neither man had been inclined to discuss the new developments in their relationship. They had simply found solace in each other's close company and had used it to mutual advantage. Or so Sherlock had thought.

Through the tenderness of his steady, solid hands, John was articulating much more. Sherlock felt as if John were explaining why he had chosen to live at 221B- partly to be in proximity to Sherlock's brilliant mind, and partly to participate in the novel danger his line of work offered. He was also now openly admitting that he had always been very much attracted to him physically. But most captivating of all was that John was conveying his wish to simply be with _him, _the man that Sherlock was aside from all of that, and that no one but John had ever been able to see. Sherlock imagined that he could absorb the message John's fingers were writing on his body indefinitely.

However, although John's hands were accustomed to long sessions of work, at last they began to tire. John wasn't sure what Sherlock really wanted next, but after ranging freely over the upper portion of that graceful body, John had a very clear idea of what _he_ wanted.

Cautiously, John worked his way down along Sherlock's back and to the waistband of his trousers, taking his time and aiming to be obvious in case he cared to object, but no such resistance seemed forthcoming.

Encouraged, John's hands nudged the trousers' top edge aside and, his palms to Sherlock's skin, curved downward inside them until he felt the chair seat through the thin fabric. He paused there, enjoying the feel of the spare flesh in his grasp. Then he felt the luscious shift in tone as Sherlock tightened the muscles of his backside, his legs spreading a bit wider on the chair seat. John decided that it was now officially a tossup between how desirable Sherlock _looked_, and how enticing he _felt_.

"Interesting," Sherlock mused in muffled tones, with his head still buried in his arms. "There is indeed quite a strong physical component of which your touch has made me aware, and you're right – it has little to do with sight, or the mind. It hurts, sort of, but in a good way."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that a little louder?" John said, leaning close. "The part about me being right?"

Sherlock laughed quietly. "I didn't mean to interrupt what you were doing, John."

"I seem to have lost my place," John said with mock concern, allowing his fingers to meander along the sides of Sherlock's hips and lightly brush forward, as if directionless. In his mind, though, he was sharply aware of the rising swell that was drawing the cloth of the trousers taut. "Where would you like to feel me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock reached down and took John's hands, gently drawing them free. Holding on for leverage, he rose from the chair, stepped back and turned. Disconcerted, John took a hesitant step back to make room. Had he misunderstood Sherlock's wishes? Despite the blindfold, he felt as if he stood full in Sherlock's blazing radiance as he spoke.

"Where would I like to feel you?" Sherlock echoed. In answer, he pulled John's palm to the center of his own chest and held it there. "Where you've helped me to realize that I already do," he said.

Although he was in physical contact with John only through their hands over his heart, their joined touch was more than enough for Sherlock to deduce John's thoughts. The doctor's warm fingers, flexing slightly with each of his breaths, trembled in reaction to his words. Where Sherlock had had to draw him in at first, now John pressed forward. And when Sherlock gently squeezed the fingers in his grip, John turned his palm and gathered up his slim hand, grasping it firmly as he drew it to his own chest.

Then Sherlock felt John place his other hand behind his head, pulling him down and bringing their lips together in an ardent, sensuous kiss. _Take it in directly_ … the phrase floated through Sherlock's mind, and he did, reveling in John's wordless but perfectly clear answer to his declaration.

Eventually, Sherlock led John's hand back down, but this time, he let it reach its goal, where it made intoxicating promises. Soon Sherlock moaned and sagged against John, who gently set him back down in the chair, only this time facing forward. Skilled fingers made quick work of the button and fly of the expensive trousers, releasing what was caged within. Finally, John had full access with which to accomplish his purpose, and he went about it with zeal.

To Sherlock, the effects of John's renewed efforts quickly defied description. The abstractions of words, numbers, and images, and his refined techniques for relating and analyzing them, had no place in his awareness now. All became an onrush of coruscating, tangible, passionate physicality. Still with the blindfold in place, Sherlock gripped the chair seat, his heart pounding and his breath ragged as he struggled, and finally gave up trying, to keep up with the rising torrent of sensation.

It wasn't long before he heard a low hum of approving anticipation emanate from John, and Sherlock felt a shock of response flash through his loins. Abruptly, his hands flew into John's hair, and then it was all he could do to stay upright on the chair. Sherlock let out a shuddering gasp and a loud cry.

Time took on a new meaning… or, perhaps, it ceased to exist altogether for a handful of ecstatic heartbeats. Sherlock wasn't sure which and frankly, didn't much care. He simply existed in an exalted, formless, unanalyzed state between moments before reality gradually faded back in.

Finally, he reached up and weakly pulled off the blindfold, to find John grinning at him madly. His consciousness came rushing back, filling his mind with the exquisite potential of testing the findings of their 'experiment' by insisting on reciprocation. _Oh God, yes_. This was going to prove as interesting as any case. Sherlock leaned forward and took John's chin in his hand. "John Watson," he told him breathlessly, pulse still racing, "You have no _idea_ of the number of experiments we are going to need to perform."


End file.
